Taffeta & Hotspur

Cook appeared to like Myriah’s manners, for she smiled readily and replied she was happy her master had someone to look after him.

Myriah then asked to be given the herbs she needed for the tisane. It didn’t take long to stir and prepare the brew, and soon Myriah was back in Wimborne’s bedchamber.

Tabby held him up while Myriah attempted to get the potion into him. This accomplished, Tab was dismissed, and Myriah continued applying a cloth soaked in rosewater to his head. He continued to toss for a few moments, rambling incoherent words, and then he drifted off.

A light lunch was sent up to Myriah, and Fletcher attempted to relieve her, but she would have none of it. For some odd reason she felt she had to care for her ‘new charge’.

At length his sleep seemed more relaxed, and then suddenly she saw him open his eyes. She was beside him instantly. He scanned her face and smiled feebly as his memory returned, and then his lids closed and he seemed to sleep again.

For an hour Myriah watched the changes of expressions flit over his face while he slept. She was fairly certain he was out of the woods and that the fever had broken when all at once he began to start tossing again and fretfully calling for Kit.

Who the devil was Kit, she wondered as she soothed his agitation. His forehead was on fire, and Myriah had a sudden urge to cry. He couldn’t die, she couldn’t let him die, but he had lost so much blood! Again she wiped away the sweat from his face, neck, and chest. She cooled his forehead with rosewater, and she prayed.

When he seemed to relax and began sleeping peacefully, Myriah wrung her hands, hoping this was a good sign as she sank down on her chair. Weary with physical discomfort and mental stress, she closed her eyes, laid her head back, and tried to compose her faculties.

“I may be in Hell, but I have changed my mind—you are an angel!” Wimborne croaked out, startling her forward.

“Mr. Wimborne!” Myriah exclaimed, going to take his hand. “Oh, oh, you do look better—not well, but ever so much better.”

“Thanks to you.” He grinned boyishly at her.

She smiled and squeezed his hand. “Oh, no. Thanks to your good man, Fletcher. He has a wondrous skill with a knife. But you lie still now … I shall be back in a moment. What you need now is some gruel.”

“No,” said the man, horrified.

“Well, not perhaps right away. First I will bring you some tea and toast,” she said, taking pity and hurrying out of the room.

Some time later, having plied her patient with buttered toast and tea, Myriah watched him fall off to sleep, feeling extraordinarily pleased with herself. She had herself only dozed for a few minutes when a knocking at the open door roused her and she found Fletcher in its frame ready to relieve her.

She smiled and dragged herself to her bedchamber, threw off her clothes, and sank naked beneath the satin coverlets, where she fell quickly off to sleep.

Dreams plagued her peace. They were muddled, lost in time, sending images to taunt and harass her. Sir Roland was there; he grabbed her and held her, and all she wanted to do was run…

* * *

Kit Wimborne, sixth Viscount of Wimborne Towers, had arrived at his home well after dinner to find it shrouded in darkness. He unsaddled his horse himself in the courtyard rather than wake his elderly groom and set the horse into the pasture. He was tired from the day’s work and thinking about the future.

He shrugged off his greatcoat and hung it on the wall rack just inside the kitchen entrance before he poured himself a shot of whisky and downed it.

Lantern in hand, he moved upstairs to his bedchamber. He was surprised that the drapes in his room had been pulled tight but was too tired to contemplate the mystery. He set the lit lantern on a side table and shrugged out of his clothes. He then picked up the lantern and made his way to his bed, setting the lantern on the nightstand. However, there he stopped short.

Someone with long, flaming ringlets of hair was lying face down, covered only to her waist—in his bed!

His first thought made him grin. His puppy of a brother had no doubt brought her home with him, but why would the rascal send her off to his bedchamber?

Drape mystery solved, and another one to contemplate … in a bit, but first …?

He sat beside the woman just as she rolled over. He got a full view of her face and a slight view of her full and luscious breasts.

Damn! He gently and deftly pulled away the thick, fiery tresses from their owner’s face and shoulders to have a better look at her face.

The object of these ministrations sighed contentedly as he sucked in air and felt a moment’s enchantment. She was ravishing, and he released a soft whistle.

He pulled a rueful grin as he thought his brother had certainly won himself a worthy piece of muslin—worthy a full grown and experienced man … such as himself.

His decision to have a better and more detailed look at the creature lying unsuspectingly in his bed was a natural occurrence, given the circumstances, believing as he did that she had been paid for her night’s services.

Again, his hands worked dexterously as he removed the quilted covering from the beauty’s tantalizing form. His eyes wandered slowly and appreciatively over her lush curves and her tantalizing nipples. Then she moaned and turned once more onto her stomach and gave him a view of her exquisite back.